


Landfall

by reapertownusa



Series: The Past is a Foreign Country [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-21
Updated: 2010-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:44:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/pseuds/reapertownusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s fixation with a young man keeps him in town long enough to realize his hunt isn’t finished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Landfall

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 in an AU verse in which Dean was taken from John shortly after Mary’s death. Eighteen years later John finds his missing son without realizing it's him.
> 
> Warnings: This part contains a non-explicit rape scene. Overall themes of prostitution and father/son incest.

The coffee burned John’s lips. He didn’t notice. Another man had died last night. He could blame himself, inevitably on some level he always did. While he’d been strolling the strip what must have been a second rusalka had taken another dockworker. Different location, same MO. He was eating rubbery scrambled eggs and that man’s family was making funeral arrangements because he’d gotten cocky. With a grimace he took another sip from the too bitter coffee. 

In reality he wasn’t as angry with himself about having missed the signs as he was with his complete inability to focus now that he knew. He couldn’t get that damn boy out of his head. That was the only reason he had still been in town come morning to hear the news of the latest death. Otherwise he would have been heading back east thinking this was over. Physically he was still here, but his mind was too far away to be of any use. 

The kid hadn’t let him pay. John had tried to insist, but what the hell could he say? It was payment for a service, shouldn’t be any different than insisting a taxis driver take money for driving him across town. But it was different and forcing the issue had seemed an insult. 

When that tragically beautiful boy had tucked the wad of offered bills back into John’s pocket he couldn’t deny him. Yet it left him desperately wanting to give the young man something, not out of a sense of debt, but something else he couldn’t place. Something that had his finger hovering over the speed dial for Sam. 

He’d never actually called his son. For all he knew Sam had ditched his old phone and tried his damnedest to forget his father’s number. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t seen Sam, he’d checked in on his boy, did every time he was in the area. Sam would be infuriated if he knew, but John couldn’t care less. He wasn’t abandoning his son even if Sam wanted him to. 

“More coffee, honey?” 

John looked up to the heavyset waitress with a warm smile and jammed his cell phone back into his pocket. “I was just heading out, but thanks.” 

After folding up the newspaper he had been pretending to read, he pulled out a couple of the bills the boy had returned and laid them on the table. He chocked back the last of his coffee and slid off the cracked vinyl booth. While focus might be eluding him, he was going to have to find it. He had a hell of a lot of work to do. If this rusalka followed the pattern of the previous, he had less than forty-eight hours to hunt the bitch down. 

He stepped out into the misty morning, slipped his hands into his pockets and headed down main street. The Impala was still at the motel. There were no great distances to be covered and on foot he was less likely to miss something. Besides, he needed the air. 

He stopped as the waterfront came into view. Where he’d expected to find an empty wharf to search at his leisure he found a gathered crowd. The local dockworkers union was on strike, had been since he arrived in town and according to this morning’s paper still was. He’d expected some picketers, but several moored cargo ships were being actively loaded. 

Moving through the crowd he was met with vicious glares that mellowed only when the men met his eyes and surrendered. At the front of the crowd he tried to move past a particularly hostile man who didn’t have the sense to back down. 

“You here to steal our jobs too?” 

“I’m not interfering with your work, don’t interfere with mine,” John replied as he flashed the man a glimpse of his FBI badge. 

“About time someone came to take care of these damn scabs,” the man replied as he stepped aside. 

John passed through the front of the line to the overwhelmed police officers who were moderating the restless crowd. Again he showed the badge to the man that looked to be in the highest position of authority. 

“Please tell me you’re here to deal with this,” the officer said with a motion towards the crowd.

John shook his head. “Sorry. I’m here about the murders. Need to take a look around.” 

“We’ve already torn the place apart, but knock yourself out. I can’t spare any officers to show you around though.” 

“I’ll find my way.” 

Even away from the shouting crowd of longshoremen the tension on the dock was palatable. Amidst their bustling activity every man he passed stopped to give him a suspicious glare and none looked open enough to answer any questions even on the off chance that they had seen something. 

Most of the men hustling around were old and worn, but an out of place young man was aligning crates on a palette for a bitching forklift operator. When the young man turned to face him John’s breath caught in his throat. The same tight shirt, the same loose jeans and those sad eyes, all the more intense by the light of day. 

A honk from the forklift broke their eye contact. “Move your ass boy!” the forklift operator shouted. The operator then turned on John. “And why don’t you pick up his slack instead of standing around with your thumbs up your ass?” 

His first reaction was to tell the operator to go to hell, but it only took a moment of watching the boy’s muscles strain under the weight of a crate meant to be lifted by several men before John stepped forward. Wordlessly he moved beside the boy and helped him lift the boxes. 

Once loaded, the forklift sped out of the warehouse towards the cargo ships. John looked over the boy beside him. Sweat soaked through his ragged t-shirt and dark smudges smeared across the freckles he had last night caressed. The boy sure as hell hadn’t turned down his money because he hadn’t needed it. 

“Dangerous work,” John remarked, his eyes glancing in the direction of the angry picketers. 

“Yeah, I guess.” The boy shrugged. “They pay in cash and don’t ask any questions, but you already knew that.” 

There was skepticism in the boy’s voice that implied he knew John wasn’t here to work the docks. It was then that he realized the boy was refusing to look at him. The confidence he had exuded last night had given away to apprehension. 

“I saw you flash a badge,” the boy continued without pulling any punches. His eyes remain lowered, tension tainting his face. “What’s it gonna take for you not to take me in?” 

By both the hesitant tone and the air of dread that hung over the boy it was obvious that it wasn’t the first time he’d asked the question. John’s jaw gave an agitated twitch at the thought of some of the answers the boy had likely received. 

“Dinner,” John replied against his better judgment. “Tonight you let me buy you a decent meal.” 

The boy looked far more startled by the reply than he likely would have if John had demanded that he dropped his pants there and then. Slender, but well built shoulders stiffened as the boy looked up with a fiery glare that was a near match for John’s own. 

It was only the honking of the returning forklift that broke the stare. The boy hurried to arrange more crates before shooting another glance to John. “I don’t need your handouts.” 

John nodded in agreement while he helped the boy lift. “Damn good thing too, because I ain’t offering any.” 

He’d let it mean whatever it had to in the boy’s mind to make him say yes. It was bad enough that this dock was turning into a social powder keg, but if the union workers didn’t get to the boy he was a prime target for a rusalka. 

The stray thought crossed John’s mind that the boy would be the perfect bait to draw in the rusalka for a kill. He would have used Sam in a heartbeat, but Sam knew the score. This kid was just a civilian and wouldn’t be able to protect himself if things went south. Obviously the boy was used to taking care of himself and there was nothing naïve about him, but something in John needed the boy not to be at the dock come nightfall. 

“When you getting off?” John asked before the boy could think it through too much. 

“I’m working ‘til the last shift. Midnight I guess.” 

“Midnight?” John glanced at his watch, it wasn’t even noon. They’d break this boy before then.

As if to confirm that the operator started in again. “You’re still gonna be working when you’re eighty if you don’t load faster.” 

“Why don’t you shut your hole you son of a bitch?” the boy shot back. “It don’t take five damn minutes to dump a load. I saw you out there grabbing a smoke.” 

It took some effort for John to hide his smirk at the dumfounded look on the potbellied operator’s face. If that man tried doing a tenth of the work the boy was doing it would land him in the morgue. The kid had Sam’s spunk but with a disregard for authority that reminded John more of himself. 

Once the forklift hummed out with another load, John turned his attention back to the boy, not that it had every actually left him. “You’ll meet me at eight and I’ll pay you the difference in lost wages.” 

The boy rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. “No you won’t, but you’ll buy me a beer and let me off by midnight.” 

John chuckled at the stubbornness that was nearly as fierce as Mary’s had been. “Fair enough. I got some other work I need to take care of if you’ll be all right here.” 

“I can take care of myself.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” 

There was a hint of admiration in his voice as John drank in the strength that emanated from the boy. It wasn’t the physicality of his solid build or his sure stance. It was something beyond the physical that said the boy was a true fighter. He’d have to be to endure the weight his eyes said he was carrying. 

“Better see you outside Shelly’s Diner, ...?” 

“Dean.” 

John took a step back as if he had been slapped. “Excuse you?” 

The boy became wary at the suddenly aggravated tone. “Sorry. Thought you were asking my name.” 

“Your name’s Dean? Dean what?” 

“Huh?” 

“What’s your last name?” John demanded. 

“It’s none of your damn business,” Dean shot back, matching John’s tone. 

It wasn’t until John forced himself to disarm that the boy did the same. “Hyster,” Dean replied after some hesitation. “Dean Hyster. It’s just a name. If you don’t like it, call me something else.” 

“If Dean’s your name, I’ll damn well call you Dean,” John replied with an unnecessary defiance. 

“Whatever.” Dean shifted uncomfortably, confused eyes turning away as the forklift returned. “I gotta get back to work.” 

~~~ 

Standing outside the diner, John pushed back the cuff of his jacket to glance at his watch. Ten past eight. He wouldn’t blame Dean for not showing. Sometimes John even surprised himself with what a complete ass he could be. It wasn’t the kid’s fault that John had lost his own son. 

Eighteen years had passed since he had abandoned his Dean. He’d screwed up, lost his head after Mary’s death. Paranoia had come to rule his life and his only thought had been keeping his sons alive in the then and now. Future hadn’t been a word in his vocabulary. 

Getting Dean registered for school hadn’t even crossed his mind. He’d been in too big of a hurry to get a gun into his baby boy’s hand. The things he had told Dean weren’t things any kid should have heard. It was a parent’s job to tell their child they were safe, not that every shadow was out to get them. He had selfishly forced Dean to carry that weight of fear with him. The only thought that let him sleep at night was the hope that Dean had found a better life. It wasn’t as if he could have found a worse one. 

As the night grew darker John grew uneasy. Two decades of hunting left him with a sixth sense about things. It was how he’d stayed alive this long. When something wasn’t right he could feel it aching in his bones. He felt that ache now. 

It could be common sense telling him he should be working not waiting around to buy dinner for a boy his son’s age. There wasn’t anything wrong with wanting to give a hard on his luck kid a real meal. It was the things he wanted to do to that boy that left him questioning his sanity. 

Turning from the diner, he headed back down the empty streets towards the dock. That’s where he should be anyway. The blanket of fog had rolled back in, dampening the sounds of the eerily quiet town. It almost made him miss a noise he would have otherwise immediately keyed in on. 

Slowing his steps, he strained his ears and heard it again – the dull thud of a fist connecting with flesh. There’d be a lot of that tonight if any of the strikebreakers were stupid enough to walk into a bar with some of the less savory of the union crew. It wasn’t any of his business. 

Still he found himself drifting towards the fight. The sound wasn’t right for a drunken brawl. John had seen enough of them, been in enough of them for that matter, to know. This was too quiet, the delay between the hits too long. As he closed in he realized it was the location that had him on edge more than anything. The struggle was in the cubbyhole the boy had drawn him into last night. 

Moving silently down the alley he got close enough to hear the harshly whispered words. “You sure do like cock, don’t you, you damn little scab?” 

John’s stomach dropped out. While it had never been his preference, some liked to talk dirty and when they were paying for it men knew they could say whatever the hell they wanted. But there was venom in the tone, hate in the words and nothing but muffled grunts in reply. 

He jogged the rest of the way down the path Dean had last night seductively led him down. Two large men blocked the entrance to the stairwell. They jumped when they heard John’s approach, parting his view to see a man on the ground. 

Someone much smaller was sprawled on the cement beneath the man, held down fists clenched in pain. In an instant shock gave way to rage. The man on top wasn’t the only one with his pants unbuckled and John wouldn’t have cared if he was. He swung his fist at the closest man, crushing cartilage with the first blow. 

The next man looked ready to join the fray until he caught John’s deadly eyes. Abandoning his companion, the man tore down the alley. John let him go and instead focused on the stunned man that was pulling out of the boy John could now confirm was Dean. Before the man could stand, John gripped the collar of his jacket, jerked him from the ground and slammed him into the wall. 

“This ain’t none of the FBI’s business,” the man huffed, breath heavy with whiskey. 

Instead of using words John delivered his message with a solid strike to the solar plexus of the man he had earlier met at the picket line. While the stunned man doubled over, John drew his pistol and jammed it up beneath the man’s chin. His finger tensed on the trigger as he stared terror into the panting man. 

“Let him go.” The man who gave the order grabbed John’s arm from behind. Without having to look, John flew his fist back, cracking the man across the face. 

“I’ll deal with you next,” he promised. 

He kept the gun aimed on the man before him while shooting a look over his shoulder. The one he had just struck wasn’t moving in to attack. It was Dean. The boy had stumbled back to land at the base of the steps. Dean righted himself so that he sat on the ground, shirt torn and spotted with the blood that dripped from his nose. His jeans were dropped down hugging his thighs just above his knees. 

Pained green eyes pleaded with John. “He’s just human,” Dean said hoarsely. “Don’t shoot him...not in the head anyway.” 

“What?” 

He made the mistake of pulling his full attention away from the man he had pinned to the wall. The man grabbed his wrist, twisting it until the gun fell free. What the man didn’t realize was that the gun was only a fear device. He didn’t need a weapon to kill. As Dean had said, this man was only a human, though still a monster by his standards. Easily John beat the drunk man to the ground while wishing the bastard was sober enough to put up a real fight. 

Only Dean’s voice slowed his blows. “That’s enough,” the boy said. When John landed another kick, Dean shoved himself off the ground and pushed his way in between John and the man. “I said that’s enough!” 

John’s chest was still heaving when he finally met Dean’s eyes. Dean too was struggling to catch his breath. The exertion of stopping John had taken the remaining energy from the boy. He weakly pulled up his jeans, his slender fingers too jittery to work the zipper. 

“Let me help.” 

There was no room for argument in John’s tone as he reached his own bloodied hands down to fasten Dean’s jeans and take stock of the boy’s injuries. Through Dean’s shredded shirt John caught glimpses of what tomorrow would be ugly bruises over the boy’s abdomen. Dean’s lip was split and his left eye was already swelling. Having his face forced down into the rough concrete had abraded the gorgeous skin of his cheek bloody. Dean was wrong. It could never be enough. 

“I’ll take a rain check on dinner.” John could hear the unshed tears in Dean’s voice as well as he could see them rimming his eyes. 

When the boy turned to leave John grabbed his arm without thinking. Dean stifled a response that was somewhere between shrinking away and preparing to throw a punch. Immediately John released him, a silent apology on his face. 

“Slow down, kiddo. You need some help.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean replied as he again turned away. “Wasn’t the first time, won’t be the last.” 

That simple statement alone solidified what John had been trying to talk himself out of. “You’re coming back to my room.” 

Dean’s stiff steps came to a halt, but he didn’t look back to John. “No, I’m not.” A too weary sigh left the boy before his shoulders slumped. “You saved my ass and I’ll repay you, I will. I..." His voice cracked and he went quiet long enough to force composure. "I just need the night off, okay?” 

A shiver shook through Dean as the cool night air soaked over his exposed skin. He slowly turned to see if John had accepted the compromise. John was too stunned to begin to formulate a response. The boy had just been raped and he was asking if John would give him a night before fucking him. 

John said nothing as he shrugged out of his leather jacket and stepped forward to drape it over Dean’s shoulders. “I’m just offering a safe place to rest.” 

“I’ve got a place.” The kid was too spent to manage a decent lie. 

“I’m not leaving you to go sleep under some pier.” The expression that flashed over Dean’s face was defensive enough to confirm the assumption was true. “You need to get cleaned up. That’s it. No strings.” 

“Everything’s got strings.” 

Despite the words, Dean didn’t push off the jacket. If anything he leaned in towards John, but his gaze was on the ground like he had something to be ashamed of. It was more than John could take. He reached out to cup his palm under the blood caked chin that he could now feel quivering with the defiance of not breaking down. John tilted Dean’s head up so the boy had to meet his eyes. 

“Hey, you’re okay.” Dean looked disbelieving. “Do I need to get you to a hospital? And don’t you lie to me.” 

“No. I’m fine. This week just sucks ass and I don’t got anywhere to go,” he confessed. "One of the sons of bitches split with my cash."

John hesitantly released Dean’s chin before replying. “From working the docks?” 

“Yeah.” 

Turning away from Dean, John returned his attention to the unconscious man on the steps. He dug into the pocket of the man’s unzipped jeans and pulled out his wallet. Flipping through it, there wasn’t enough to replace what the dock had given Dean, but it was at least something that Dean couldn’t refuse. He threw the wallet back down at the man and held the cash out to Dean. 

“You keep it,” Dean said. “It’ll pay my part of the motel bill.” 

Taking a page from Dean’s own book, John ignored the words, folded the bills and slid them into Dean’s pocket. He tried to ignore the flush of pleasure that the boy’s quiet gasp kindled in him. Silently he dared Dean to try to give the money back. 

A quiet smirk danced over Dean’s swollen lips. “Guess it’s your place tonight.”


End file.
